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Metaphor Political Poems | Metaphor Poems About Political

These Metaphor Political poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Political. These are the best examples of Metaphor Political poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

Say What You Think

Let the bystanders be at ease

Locals and foreigners alike

Seasoned spectators accustomed to

The wind blowing over the South Seas

But who can tell you

How flourishing and fragrant are

The hibiscus and frangipani

My “Lei” from long ago

Twilight is upon the land

Let us stroll and make light conversation

In the shade of the law, in the shade of politics

The leadership remains righteous

Reveal the truth about our day

Then start the early morning chant

Thankful for the loading of the harvest

Swift and sure is the voyage

Happy are the exchanges in the welcome

String hibiscus, string frangipani

It is the garland befitting mutual friendship

Picked and strung to be the top layer

It is this, I think, it is this, perhaps

That stands as a symbol

Appearing as a lighthouse

As the tower of happiness

The gathering is crowded

Lights glitter in the night

Navigator, turn this way

Do but whisper and we will cheer

I shall tie up a bouquet of Ylang-Ylang

Truly it is my treasure

Copyright © Ligella Mandraki

Details | Free verse | |

The Color Missing

The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt

Details | Free verse | |

Generic Minds

generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot 
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine 
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians 
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them

Copyright © Green Trees

Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Narrative | |

A Land Bearing Green White Green

Which way leads to the 
land of green white 
Which way are we 
   A country the wicked 
bears the rulership, and 
the people sighing 
   A terrible thing sprouts 
beneath the sun: a 
pregnant woman 
delivering not.
Imps come to lime-light 
by snuffing air from the 
goose that laid the 
golden eggs.
The blind guiding the un
The weak suppressing 
the strong-a terrible 
Like the overthrow of the 
gods at Mt. Olympus by 
the Titans.
A country where also 
thieves appear as men of 
Land of green white 
green,which way?
A land where the 
enlightened ones are 
overshadowed and 
peanuts given to them.
The masses are dogs that 
eat the crumbs.
 Which way to go you 
Iliterates stand on 
podium of power 
bellowing orders as milk 
of sorrow known as 
dividends of democracy 
is passed around.
The machine of progress 
manned by the 
"There is better 
tomorrow" we hear.
Land of green white 
green,my country 
where rule of law walk 
beside anarchy.
The proles are sentenced 
to adversity,and there 
endured death-like trials.
Chai! Aru! People 
dancing on thorns 
whimpering as they 
  I see a new sun rising 
from the horizon,hope is 
rekindled as its rays 
grace on hopeless bodies.
 Look!! there soon be 


Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu

Details | Rhyme | |

Slide of Hand

Democracy came,
Democracy left,
Marking the material meek for death,
The one to fallow pumping hot lead in their chest,
Offering hope,
Saying "we can be the best!"
Now they work with no rest,
Strings are pulled on a puppet press,
Subconsciously suppressing the wide eyed mass,
Work with no rest!
A slave generation all focused on how to dress,
The gunman in position,
No noise the shots suppress,
Survival available with a billion dollar vest,
Freedom was stressed,
Liberty regressed,
Blood in blood out the presidents new inaugural address.

Copyright © doyi lani

Details | Lyric | |


Let the Deicide commence.

You're a voyeur at best!
Your vampiric heart is beating out of your chest!
And you have slayed the ones whom would love you for anything less
Ready to consume the final fragments of innocence,
And for you there is no forgiveness,
On your knees pleading, screaming to a tyrant in the skies;
The father of lies.

I will never be enslaved in your superiority
The people agree: jaded of your false dichotomies.
Know: I will be whomever nature intends to be
Apollo and I will share our dreams,
and you will be forced to see
your failure!

I know who you are...
Readily the first to present your scars
Chained by some despot or mental czar
An emotional homunculus in your mind, behind bars
Reluctant to escape - even when proven fake
Your demented mind - depths no one will penetrate!
...And you see me suffering
Not caring of any casualties
Just as long you recieve your safeguard of sympathy
So very wary of the masses and their Anarchy; Liberious ways

Solipsist - Is there no one you can see?
Even if she was presented burning?
Solipsist - Is there no one you can believe?
Even if Sophia was screaming?
Solipsist - Know you have killed and abused me
Imprisoned in your own  personal reality 

Copyright © Wyatt Loethen

Details | Blank verse | |

The Eye

The eye,a sign the 
unwise can't comprehend
  Forged from the world's 
illumination in darkened 
minds,for the 
enlightened ones like 
Leonardo da Vinci,Isaac 
Newton,John Milton....etc.
   The eye is a tree 
with many branches like 
Priory of Scion,Knight 
Lodge,Music industry, 
Politics,global economy, 
stretching beyond 
human imaginations-felt 
in all corners of earth.
  The world is clothed 
through wisdom from 
   The eye,all seeing 
sign,an invincible 
emblem of power and 
riches to the lion hearted 
and loyal souls.
A seat of influence and 
  Creating the social order 
through men of power....
  Some see it as a 
curse,others a blessing.
  I feel it,the great eye is 
everywhere watching 

Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu

Details | I do not know? | |

I Don't Care

I Don't Care...

I don't care,
if you're battered black and blue,

I don't care,
just as long as I can drink and screw.

I don't care,
if you've lost your damn job,

I don't care,
you're just a kernel off the cob.

I don't care,
when I see you begging in the street,

I don't care,
I get to suckle on capitalism's raw teat.

I don't care,
about the elderly, the poor, or the weak,

I don't care,
if the earth will be inherited by the meek.

I don't care,
if the climate is warming, I'm so much cooler,

I don't care,
in my penthouse I'm the boss, the only ruler.

I don't care,
for those rolling for scraps in the muck,

I don't care,

I really don't care, cos' I don't give a f**k

inspired by Bob Geldof's "The Great Song of Indifference"

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Haiku | |

Haikus About God: IV

God made all people
But some better than others?
Stop being silly.

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Haiku | |

Haikus About God: VI

The body: sacred
We’re all made in God’s image
Hence... circumcision?

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Iambic Pentameter | |

Harvesting The Cash Crops

For years and years and a few more years, it now seems clearer to me,
That we’ve lived well, in the nutshell of our small town obscurity.

Life has been grand, on two acres of land of which I can’t lament.
Though living tall, we’ve kept things small, even the way our money’s spent.

Back of my mind, I’ve been inclined to believe that saving is good,
And that posit, has led to deposits for as much as I could.

In each account, I put in amounts as if planting a garden,
Albeit these seeds, were green as weeds, but at least I was start’en.

Yes time has passed, three decades go fast, and I’ve watched that garden grow.
Although there were years, where only some tears, sprouted out of each row.

Whether sunny, though not very funny, often the plants wilted,
But anyways, I’d plant each day, now some of my crops are gilded.

Though currently, this economy’s, dire in our nook and cranny.
So much so, that I don’t know, if it’s worth getting off my fanny.

Pardon that line, but it kinda’ rhymed, and sometimes that’s how I roll.
But anyhow, I’m back here now; yes hardship has taken a toll.

New planting’s a joke, like I just spoke, since I have no new seeds at hand,
Now I’ll switch, and dig up each ditch, due to this ill-timed command.

So here I go, ready or no, harvesting long planted cash crops.
For as long, that thrift is wrong, and until things perk up I can’t stop.

Far from retiring, nor desiring, to pick these crops premature,
But there’s no choice, and we can’t rejoice, yet have hope for the future.

Thus I’ll pray, and wait for the day when our countries fiscally sound,
But have doubts, and crops may run out, before Reagan comes back around.

Copyright © David Fisher

Details | Sonnet | |


-- James Ph. Kotsybar

The zombies are coming; no one knows why –
no time to ponder such things anyhow.
Apocalypse gives us no time to cry.
Survival is all we can think of now.

They hunt for us in slow, relentless mobs
and push past all our barricades by force.
We stifle our screams and swallow our sobs
to realize we are just their food source.

There may exist a ruling, safe elite –
the privileged who caused our current woes
and watch us as we’re torn apart like meat –
but likely they’re no better off.  Who knows?

For us, they won’t sweep in to save the day.
To them, we never mattered anyway.

Copyright © James Ph. Kotsybar

Details | Sonnet | |


Arise, you song birds sing in morning dew;
The flow’ry host to colour fields and furrows,
And sap of Spring runs gold in willows veins; 
As tender leaves unfold to speak of birth,
Fresh mountain ranges iced give life anew—
While waters melt and stream through cricks and borrows
The gleams of light will melt the winter strains
Though spills of oil have quenched the songs of earth.
The corporate sting of greedful revenue,  
Has bankrupt natural wonders—greedy farrows
The eagle has no pow’r to save her eggs,
Tall forests fall and crush the robin’s hue
When flow’ry petals change to black on yellow—
The spotted fawns arise with warbled legs

Copyright © J.R. Dawson

Details | Prose | |

I Wish It Were So Easy

I sat with my tea pot and tea in hand, watching the afternoon news. It always offered evidence, that the government, was raving mad. My mind, always boggled, by their, insane exploits; those bad bulbs, that they were; blew every opportunity to, build a better world. Their scattered chatter, Unceasing, in all its idiocy; Bickering baby bulbs, crying over spilled milk. There’s always a short…somewhere. I admit that I’m not the brightest bulb, in the world; but I’m not the dumbest, either. So often, I wish that I could flip on a light switch and magically, make them work wonders.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser

Details | I do not know? | |

Tomorrow is Ours

Tomorrow is Ours.

Suffocating beneath the weight of historical fear,
asphyxiated by the legacy of traumatised yesteryear,

the festering wounds of enslavement still remain,
juggling euphemisms in a crisp sound-bitten refrain,

spewing out neo-liberal economic charades,
doling out charity in strips of plastic band-aids,


tomorrow shall be ours,

casting away subservient mind-sets that shackle,
no longer the weakened prey of the insatiable jackal,

tomorrow shall be ours,

we shall reclaim our plundered mindspaces,
we shall shed our chains, leaving behind the traces,

of past injustice, of the hurt and pain of our ancestors' sorrows,

we are here, now, alive with hope,

we shall rightfully claim our own tomorrows.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Monorhyme | |

Sins of my father

His sins are heavy/
He stood there silent/ 
Sweat dripping down his armpit this sins r heavy/
Victims see a savior sent from heaven his sins r blurry/
His sweat tastes no salt secrets hidden behind doors glued in bolt they worship his father/
Zip down unzipped to keep his zip down and never spit zip/
He is an experiment a doormat of his Father's zip/
He weeps but nobody speaks/
His father's sins are heavy/

Copyright © Raymond Ngomane

Details | I do not know? | |

The Petty Posh-WahZee - Liberation and Ostentation

The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation

The Not-So Distant Past:

The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.

They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.

Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,

and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.

The Present:

19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,

a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.

I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,

our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.

Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,

babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,

yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,

needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,

for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Epic | |

Isigin Dusu-II

Senle ve sensiz bir hic
Yururum yolumda
Korkmadan yasamin
Senle sensiz bir hic

Bir dag yamacinda ucurum hayatim senle sensiz bir hic
Yasam dersem kabulum agit yakilmis sevdamiza
Hikayesi  umit olsa da  acsa  cicek olsa sevda yaylalarda
Senle sensiz bir hic  bilerim  tasinmaz yasanmaz  nefesimiz

Bir cicek sevda yaylada ruzgarla esen
Kosma  olumune  desem  kimse dinlemez  
Ruzgarlar  sallar eser gullu  basma  bedenini 
Saklar saclarini yazmali basortusu dantelli
Akar bir nehir  sevdayla senle ve sensiz hic
Bir  koca cinar  bolunmus toprak yarik yarim
Amansiz nehir  akar  bolunur  delinen kalbim 
Senle ve sensiz bir hic  canim sevdam
Cok  canlar  oldu telef gozyasi oldu tasti  irmak
Cok analar yakti agit  kan kirmizi  irmak

Cok kahpe planlar hoyratca  goz yumanlar
Cok aci  kahkahalar oyunu  sessizce  oynatanlar
Senle ve sensiz alkis tutanlar bir hic  utancim
Gelecegim senle sensiz 
Isigin dusu  umidim cocuklarim

Copyright © reyhan yucebay

Details | Haiku | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Storm Part IV

Culminates in a washout
Stuffed camels get soaked

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Verse | |

a power struggle

the quay is where he sat.
     deep in thought, he speaks out.
     “my money is my clout.”
he rise and walks.

     the quayside beacons him.
the pelicans he hears.
     he ponders his past years.
the muse was sent.

     his journey to pier lands;
     he sits to disembark.
the singing of the larks
brings deep thinking.
PENNED ON JULY 08, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker

Details | Narrative | |

The Truth of the Dragon-Knight

Last knight Eye dreamed Eye was a dragon with wings made from disdain and shaped like quaking fear that burned holes through my subconscious imaginings. Eye was gliding soundlessly thru dark clouds, thunder, and rain, while the Slayers stood below, grounded in tyranny and trying to pull Me from the knight sky...Then Eye could hear, then Eye watched thru Dragon-I's as arrows joined my flight...trying to penetrate the hard scales of My spiritual skin. The muted sharpness of the arrows' dancing ricocheted off of Me.

Then Eye cried. Not in agony or pain or

Eye cried in echoing defiance of the oppression of blind slavery and meaningless denial. Eye belched blue and green flame and roared aloud--as loud as my Dragon-voice would carry. Eye scorched the minds of the lie-ers and self-made martyrs (there, the ones who were carrying the omission of Truth of this world).

The Slayers still stood their ground. They kept circling  around and around under Me...but Eye kept pumping My neck, Eye kept beating My wings, but still the Slayers came...more and more of them...

Eye dived down deep toward their barren landscape (My Own Hunting Ground!!); Eye needed to see their torn, hated faces...Men, all. They kept their hoods drawn, their faces hidden from My I's. But their bodies were bare and naked to My Dragon-flame, naked to the force of My righteous wrath. Eye swept down closer, closer until Eye could smell the scents of their sweat and dried blood (of conquered servants before), and Eye could see, even count, the dark hairs sprouting from greasy, dirt-clogged pores. Eye could see that some bore vehement scars, jagged marks streaking across their man-flesh.

Their weapons were crude, mostly: wood axes, scythes, cudgels, kitchen knivez sharpened to a murderous edge...the only sophisticated armaments were their bows, their arrows. The bows were of blood and bone and tendon and blind fear, the sinewy string woven with acceptance of the odd (the Truth that they must stand and fight a common enemy as a single unit, that they must stop war amongst themselves to do so)...and their arrows were bound with Hope and Reason, that Eye would die before them, that they would live on. The bows were more beautiful than the Slayers deserved to wield, but they commanded them with such grace and poise and proficiency...

The Truth is Eye, the Dragon-Knight, and the Slayers are all of mankind's fear and war and social stigma among thorns...

Their bows were the making of Truth and Love and Acceptance, only constructed and command-able when mankind will stand together and open their I's and see.

Copyright © Lauryn Jean

Details | Rhyme | |


The tectonic plates of democracy are violently on the move
Social upheaval shaking the foundation stones of freedom and truth
Grappling with giants and wrestling with angels finding ourselves on 
shifting sands
Civilization crumbling as an undercurrent of angry discord
slowly rumbles across the land
Reverberations of tyranny or the aftershocks of change,
what choice will democracy demand? 
Points of contention have now become fault lines in the sand
As we gather on the ideological battlefield of man

Copyright © Lori Lucas McClure

Details | Rhyme | |

Justice league Is Major

Sure i hit hard, always shining like a star, i carry more pain than any man
I'm half metal, I'm prt metal too ever since I was knee high
Trust me i learned early, 11 mnths. i was walking and stomping by then

May i remind you I'm remaining silent, like Mirinda rights
... how she fixes things
And i tell you i still hit good with the pain 
And i know your blonde hair and your blue eyes
And I know the clue coming from Spain

Like I was nuesas, like I couldnt even respond to that comment - man!
And she's a diamond sparkling in my eye's when i tell her this
If I was'nt half metal I'd be hooked on that thing, still hooked

LIke them juices what you gonna do?
And your breast they're well formed I knew GOD knew what He was doing
And your face, let's just say that,  God gave you something to touch my mind with

I'm telling you it would be a pleasure just to be in a presence of a Beauty well
Like she was in the Palace, and The Princess, like she needed a KNight in Shining Armour
Like I was A-fraid, and THe ARMY be the Sword in my hand you bastard
And the dragon I be chasing after him, boy I ain't scared 
Bits and pieces of my song Justice league

Copyright © Timothy Jacks

Details | I do not know? | |

The Tragedy of the Banished Revolutionaries

The Tragedy of the Banished Revolutionaries.

Epochs apart, yet,
bound by conscience,


Enduring the whispers of time,
through creeds professed,
sermons preached,
and a million sins confessed.


the essence,
of these banished revolutionaries,
is ceremonially muted by ritual,
and gleefully crushed under,
grandiose edifices,
that serve Religion Inc.

"And the meek shall inherit the earth",
an incendiary thought,
conveniently discarded,
for the pie in the sky that must be sought.

The tragedy of the banished revolutionaries,
whispers still,
for us to hear,
through the din of the cacophony of prayer.


The tragedy of the banished revolutionaries,
each day that we choose,
to shun the meek,
and mouth conscience-salving prayers,

for yet more silver,
and yet more silk.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |



The caustic tongues of the evangelists,
Across all creeds and faiths,
Seem as brittle as an old bone.

For they promise heaven and they spew forth threats of hell
While neglecting the words of that man who walked in Galilee

'let him who is without sin, cast the first stone'

the caustic tongues of the evangelists...

across all religions
new-age and the ones of old
baffle me even as I hear
a single simplistic sermon

for they really do, view us all
as blind imbeciles
scurrying around like faithless vermin

the caustic tongues of the evangelists...

wag on and dazzle us with visions of an eternal paradise
while here and now
their hypocrisy festers
within their earnest
well-meaning eyes...

'...dil mein hai khwaaish-e-hoor-o-jannat
aur zaahir mein shauk-e-ibaadat
bas hamen sheikh-ji aap jaise
allah-waalon se allah bachaaye...'

' your heart you desire the maidens of heaven
yet in the now you practice the rituals of piety
o' sheikh, may allah protect me
from the people of allah like yourself...'

is my tongue as caustic as the tongues I write about?
if so, then glad am I
for they shouldn't be the only ones
who preach and rant and continually shout

from their pulpits ever so high in the sky
from their hubris of comfort in possessing the 'truth'

from their 'knowing' that heaven or hell
awaits both the strong as well as the meek

while oblivious to the reeking foul smell
that encourages prejudice and hate
and visions not of peace
but of endless chants and prayers

which they, in their opium haze
rattle on and on
as they never seem to cease to speak

and though I’m sure that all this bile that I have spewed
will threaten
and offend

friend and
unfriend and
acquaintance alike


take pity on me instead
for it'll surely be I
who'll burn eternally
impaled by a benevolent god
on a slightly warmer than normal day in hell

on a crude wooden spike.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

MLK - 1929 - 1968

(January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)

they shot you down
all those years ago


your dream lives on
and always will

for though much has been
gained since you dreamed
your dream

there is much to fight for
and much more to struggle for

and much, much more
to fight for still

your dream resounds in
our hearts and we pledge 
this to you today
for though they shot you down
all those years ago on a memphis day
we shall overcome
this we do believe
deep in our hearts
we shall overcome

(for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | ABC | |

Guitars Of War

When men of fame do meet discord,
They find a way to prove their point.
Then it is, they think of the art,
And call to play artists of doom.
The artists too, who know their art,
Would play the strings from their guitars,
Releasing pleasant   sounds   of   doom
That   leave   men gasping   for   breaths   of   air.
Babies wail, toddlers weep;
Their mothers too have felt the sounds
Taking rise   from the guitars of war,
And lay by them with gaping eyes.
Young boys leave, all on their heels,
And flee without their closest ones,
Fear oozing out of every pore
That yet has not been blocked by blood.
Sounds of horror fill the misty air:
Bombshells cracking open, ‘leasing doom,
Creaking sounds from shattered houses
Under attack by massive arson,
Rhythmic thuds of bodies to the ground
From mortal tones that vade the air,
The agonised screams of innocence,
Dwarfed only by the dreadful cannonade.
Screams of little girls, barely grown,
Receiving men they’ve never known,
Left alone in shattered raiment
To brood and lick their bleeding wounds.
Tender   ones, better off dead,
Trudge along, barely standing,
With sunken cheeks and pointed ribs
Peeping   from   transparent   chests.
They’d give their leaf-thick fleshy parts
Just to lay their hands on flour,
Before the next artistic blast takes them unawares.
What a sharp contrast they are
To all their mates that live with fame.
The day is dead, the show is off,
The artists then return to base
To meet females with smiling kids
That know not what their fathers do.
All is well, their lives are good,
As pay bags do weigh higher.
Victory is here, but for whom?
The hundreds   that hushed the thousand?
Fellow men, what have you done?
Composed your master piece i guess!

Copyright © Karl Nkecha Safindah

Details | I do not know? | |

The Glow of Soft Truths

the glow of soft truths
tucked between the folds of the heart

radiates through the coarse fabric of each fleeting day

transcending the hurdles that litter the way

extinguishing the trepidation and the unfounded fears away

beyond the very now with an eye firmly gazing towards the coming morrow

where genuine peace may be found while dispelling the nasty sting and the solitary sorrow

and when that moment is finally found

when peace and mirth is felt all around

the bliss may seem plentiful, and the being with simple joy may abound

without a word being spoken

without the din, the static of the endless drone

so infused with soothing music, yet hardly making a sound

for the truth of peace that lies in wait

just beyond the corner

is a truth that may never be sought

or bought

for that truth of peace must be ushered inside

until deep in the soul it will then quietly reside...

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Rhyme | |

Our politicians

Our Politicians
They speak like politicians
And hold a great ambition.
They think they are right
And same speech they recite.
They always gather for a bite
Deciding who should start the fight.
All have their own stations
To be the victims of cremation.
They gather their own crowd
Who cheer and clap to any sound.
They think they are right
Only here for a bite.
They speak like Aristo
And act like Montecristo!
They smoke big cigars
And all drive tinted cars.
They dress in glitter
And all have Twitter.
They act so polite
But hardly can write.
Always in action
Only during the election.
To make a collection
Or a connection.
O What a time you feel like 
Committing a crime.

For a brief background about this poem, pls, read the poem (Beirut).

Copyright © ali hammoud